Silenced Whispers
by MyPhoenixLament
Summary: COMPLETE Little is known of the ghosts which reside here within the walls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. For some, their pasts have been entirely erased from memory, and all that remains is but a shadow of their former selves...
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

Little is known of the ghosts which reside here within the walls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. For some, their pasts have been entirely erased from memory, and all that remains is but a shadow of their former selves. We mortal beings know nothing of death, for it hides its secrets, only unearthing them as we pass beyond after our final moments, yet then, there are still some who fear what lies ahead once we are gone. They are those who choose not to accept their fate. They are those who walk amongst us, yet cannot be one of us, for they are but a mere imprint of life itself upon the Earth.

Books can only tell us so much ere they must be cast aside for one to delve deeper than parchment and ink. And when such an occasion does arise, we must understand that many of our questions shall go unanswered until our own demise. Perhaps we shall find naught but a name, or perhaps no name at all, for there are those who choose to withdraw from the world they chose so hastily not to leave. We must know that the secrets of Death cannot be explained by Life. It is only when life intervenes that one may attempt to understand.

And thus, it is just this that I have done.

Curiosity, I have found, can be quite a bittersweet thing. Oft times, one may find themselves curious as to a particular or peculiar course of events, only to find themselves in a rather nasty situation that one may discover is quite difficult to escape. Yet other times, in our thirst for knowledge, we may stumble upon things that were not meant to be found, thus sparking an unquenchable desire for an explanation of sorts.

I admit, most modestly, that I know and understand a great many things. More things, perhaps, than one person alone should know, and more things than any other man has known before. For it has become my obligation, one could possibly say, to be aware of what that has occurred in the lives of others before our time. Though, it may seem that I am a foolish old man who chooses to meddle and otherwise place his abnormally crooked nose where it does not belong. (My habits have been viewed as such and frowned upon in the past, and I do not deny that they will in days to come.) Yet it is oft times the meddling of others which enlightens one most.

And this, my dear readers, is what brings me to that which I am about to call upon you to do. The reason why I sit at my study, late this evening, and scribe this letter. I invite you to embark upon a mysterious journey to the final moments of the Hogwarts ghosts–and perhaps some others along the way. To relive and shed light upon the past, and to attempt to understand our history. For we oft times ask ourselves, _What happened to silence these long-forgotten whispers?_

_-Albus Dumbledore_


	2. The Bloody Baron

Just to clarify... This story is six death-day one-shots. The first is the Bloody Baron, the second is the Grey Lady, the third is the Fat Friar. Then is Nearly-Headless Nick, Professor Binns, and lastly, Moaning Myrtle. The first three are completely written, the fourth is nearly finished. The last two will be written shortly after the fourth is finished.

_

* * *

Harry looked over at the Slytherin table and saw a horrible ghost sitting there, with blank staring eyes, a gaunt face, and robes stained with silver blood..._

_"How did he get covered in blood?" asked Seamus with great interest._

_"I've never asked"...  
-Harry Potter and the Sorceror's Stone, page 124._

**Seduction of a Silver Knife:  
The Bloody Baron**

At first light, the Baron de Croteau had awakened. It was not the rising of the sun, however, which had disturbed him so, for the curtains had been drawn tightly shut the night before to prevent such a thing from occurring. Nay, his mind had been troubled by strange dreams, thus causing him to open his eyes abruptly that morn with a chilled layer of perspiration soaking his forehead. He had not an ounce of Seer's blood within his veins, at least that he knew of, and so could not have interpreted their meaning to anything of significance, if they had meant something at all. He doubted this, though, as Seers and their readings were not to be trusted by any means.

Still, there remained a small amount of uncertainty in his mind, an unusual occurrence, yet none-the-less persistent. He blotted the moisture which had begun to trickle into his eyes, his hands shaking slightly. "Elf," he called into the darkness. He waited for the small _pop_ which signaled the creature's arrival, yet his summons fell upon deaf ears. Impatiently, he demanded once more for its presence.

"ELF!" he bellowed.

At last, the elf appeared in the doorway, its bat-like ears wobbling as it bobbed its head repeatedly in apology. "Master, Ebby is sorry! I is talking with the Mistress, Sir. Ebby is not wanting to ignore the Master's orders, but I is not being allowed to leave!"

He sneered in disgust. "I am feeling ill, Elf. Open the drapes and send for my breakfast."

"I is having a name, Sir, but Ebby will do as the Master says," the elf muttered, though true to its word, obeyed. The baron surveyed Ebby with a look of mingled revulsion and bitterness. How he loathed the horrid creatures, so loyal and willing. They had not opinions of their own, only that of their masters, and did not live for themselves, only others not of their own kind. The entirety of their race was pitiful; a joke. As she turned to leave, she paused, then once more faced the Baron. "Sir, the Mistress is wanting to speak with you now."

He considered this. What could the wretched woman want from him? "She will wait. I do not wish to speak with her at the moment." The man sighed and settled against the mount of cushions which bedecked his bed.

"But, Sir, she is telling Ebby—" the elf stammered, wringing her hands in distress. The motion caused her enormous ears to quiver, which would have amused him greatly if he had not been growing angry with the creature.

"SILENCE!" he demanded, and she was abruptly hushed. "You will obey me, Elf, not the whims of my wife."

With obvious reluctance, Ebby bowed. "Yes, Sire. Of course. Ebby is not listening to Lady Celia."

The man uttered his approval and dismissed her, his head throbbing with a dull aching pain. He rubbed his temples in a circular motion, attempting to relieve himself of such a hinderence, yet his efforts were for naught. Perhaps he would not even rise from his bed that day at all.

And yet, as he thought this very thing, there came a knock upon his chamber door. "Enter," said he with a disgruntled air. Who would dare disturb him at such an hour, and with him still abed? Celia was the only being who had acquired the knowledge of where he slumbered, though he was most certain the guards had not freed her from the confines of her chamber. They would not do so unless ordered by him alone, for it was all he could do to keep her there. The Baron scratched his chin beneath his thin beard, recalling the occasion by which she had been brought to him.

It had been autumn, he reflected, when the leaves had first begun to turn. The harvest was well underway, and the roofs of the cottages had been thatched for the weather which was most certain to come that winter. The air had a distinct chill to it, something which could have been held accountable to the season.

What had he been doing? He strained to remember. Ah, yes, collecting taxes. It was what they had expected of him, for they thought him a muggle like themselves. What were they to know that their money was of no use to him? He had played the proper role as Baron, even dressed himself in their non-magic finery. And they were common; uneducated; docile. However much it disgusted him, it was how he preferred them to be, though an uprising had its perks—and proved them better than house elves, at the very least.

Yet, there seemed to be one, at times, who rose above the others; one who chose to withdraw themselves and revolt in whatever way they could. Though, such men were easily persuaded, even without the aid of magic. Celia's father had been one of them.

"I've nothin', Sire," he had informed the Baron. "The livestock's been slaughtered, the meat salted an' dried. Surely, M'Lord, I've nothin' of interest fer yeh." The Baron had sneered at the man, whose crown had begun to grow bald. He remembered it now. It was the moment at which he had first set his eyes upon the girl.

"You know, then, what must be done–"

Her father had grasped her shoulders and wheeled her to him. "Sire, yeh must take m'daughter as payment. She'll be a good'n to yeh, won't yeh, Celia?"

She hung limply in her father's grasp, her silvery blonde locks hanging lankly to her shoulders. "Papa, please…" she begged, but her pleas had gone unanswered, and she was thrust further toward the Baron.

"Take 'er!" Tears stained her fair cheeks, her blue eyes blood-shot and swollen. Such a pretty thing she was, not meant for the harsh, cruel life of a peasant. And so he had agreed, meaning to spoil the girl with luxury.

And yet…

The Baron clenched his hand into a fist with anger and directed his focus upon the door which had begun to open. He pulled the bedcovers closer to his chest, expecting Ebby or an important caller from the Ministry. (They had not forgotten him, even in the ids of so many muggles.) What he had not expected, however, was Celia, the very person he though secured in her chamber.

"Jonathon," she cooed as she strode to him. Her tresses hung freely at her side, for they had long-since grown past her waist. She was clad in nothing but the thin gown in which she slept, and it hugged her slender body gracefully.

"I am indecent, Celia, as are you. I must dress. If you will excuse me." He ignored the throbbing in his temples and placed his feet firmly upon the stone floor, making his way to the chest in which he housed his clothing. How had she escaped, or had she escaped at all? He inquired the former of her whilst he pulled on a pair of trousers and loosened the constricting buttons of his robe.

Celia laughed, a sound like to the twittering of birds. "The guards are easily bribed, my husband. You know as much as I that it is true. After all, you did not answer my request."

"Request?" he repeated with indignance. "I know of no request."

"Ebby did not tell you? She has been so reliable in the past."

"The elf? Celia, I have not the time for your whims."

"But you have the time for your own, I suppose," she retorted. "You cannot keep me prisoner here!"

"Do not tell me what I cannot do. It is not your place," Jonathon spat. "By law, you are my possession. Take kindly to it that I do not abuse such privileges!"

"Then why keep me locked away? What purpose does it serve?" she demanded, her slender body shaking with suppressed fury.

"Obviously, you have discovered your own means by which to escape. You have not yet been schooled in the ways of our world. Your powers have gone unchecked for too long, and as such, you are a danger to yourself and those around you. Do you wish that to be?" he hissed, and she slowly shook her head. "I thought not."

"Then educate me, Jonathon! Teach me spells and woo me with love potions! Whisk me away upon a broom; let me ride the winged beast you call a hippogriff! Dazzle me with unicorns and fairies! What harm could come from such things, I ask you!" Her chest heaved and she glared at her husband scornfully. "Why do you put me away when you know that I long to be free?"

"Is this why you wished to see me? To bother me with your besotted wishes?" he snapped. "To hell with them! And I suppose I _were_ to teach you. Would you then not attempt escape? Or would you use your magic to leave me as you so desire? I cannot permit it, Celia."

"I would think of doing no such thing, my love. Is there to be no trust between us?" Her demeanor had changed, her voice lowered to a soft murmur.

"You must not lie to me. Do not even attempt it." He was beginning to soften, though he would not show it unless she begged. Perhaps he would teach her. However, he knew that her promises were hollow. He pinned the button upon his cuff and at last turned to her.

The woman stepped to him and ran her delicate hands across his face, caressing his skin. "Jonathon," she whispered into his ear, her breath tickling the minute hairs about it. "Is there nothing that I can do to persuade you?" She pressed herself to him and trailed her finger along his cheek. The Baron stiffened at her touch, though did not attempt to stop her.

"There is nothing," he smiled. Celia kissed him tenderly and pushed him back against the cushions upon his bed, sitting upon his legs.

"Then I believe," she whispered, "that you have chosen wrongly."

He blinked, for a moment, startled. From her bodice, she withdrew a gleaming silver dagger, its hilt encrusted with crudely-cut emeralds. In the fleeting moment ere she plunged it deep into his chest, he recognized the weapon as a birthday present given to him by his father the eve he had first received his Hogwarts acceptance letter.

"_You will make me proud, boy," he had said, and patted the young Baron upon his head. "Remember that the snake can bring down the mighty lion with but one strike. But beware the eagle, my son, as its talons are quick and sharp."_

He felt the metal gouge between his ribs and pierce his heart, blood flowing in torrents down his front. Celia watched in silent triumph, her eyes cold and stony. Laboriously, he grasped her throat in his weakened hand, and he grimaced as her eyes widened in shock. She desperately clawed at his arm in an attempt to release her constricted airway.

_He sat upon the three-legged stool with a ragged hat perched atop his head. "Your father was great," it told him, "yet you could be greater. I see cunning and a love of morbid darkness. You'd best be put in-_

_SLYTHERIN!"_

Was he really so cold? In horror and loathing, he let his hand fall. Jonathon felt the woman collapse upon him. Had he killed her? He did not know. Perhaps she had only fainted.

His life flowed from the wound in his chest and his vision began to blur.

"Celia…" he gasped. _What have I done?_


	3. The Grey Lady

"No_," Harry hissed. "I know it's here somewhere."_

_They passed the ghost of a tall witch gliding in the opposite direction, but saw no one else._

-_Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, page 210_

**A Covington Demise:  
The Grey Lady**

Ninette Covington had been quiet as a girl, preferring to keep her nose buried within he confines of a most excellent book, and, as in the past ten years, her routine had not much changed. Throughout the decade, she had kept to herself, arousing suspicions from the neighbors and drawing curiosities from the nearby school boys. It was scandalous, the village gossips would whisper behind their gloved hands, for such a young lady such as herself to remain secluded for her entire life, unmarried and seemingly alone. A spoilt girl, they called her.

Lord Covington, upon his untimely death, had left a large estate to his eldest daughter. The property had been maintained ever since with the utmost care, though no one could ever discern how. Not once had any being been seen moving inside of the house or anywhere about it. To the oblivious eye, it was the most peculiar thing.

"Netta, put that thing down for a moment and come outside! 'Tis a glorious day!" A young girl appeared suddenly in the doorway of Lady Covington's library with her cheeks merrily flush to match the dainty pink of the roses below the window ledge. She twirled happily about for a moment, her violet skirts billowing in a full circle as she spun.

"Nicky, dear, the sun is far too bright for my taste this afternoon. I'm perfectly content indoors" Ninette smiled warmly at her younger sister from over the tops of the pages belonging to a particularly thickly-bound tome; her eyes never left the page so as not to lose her place.

Nicola wrinkled her nose in disdain. And marched to the alcove in which Ninette was nestled. She snatched the book from her hands and tossed it aside. "Netta," the girl whined, "You know I'll soon return to Hogwarts. Let us enjoy my last few days together!"

The pleading look in her sister's eyes seemed reason enough to give in, she decided. What harm could an afternoon do? After all, Netta hadn't ventured far from the estate in many a day, and while the still silence such a walled environment provided was ideal, she thought that perhaps a bit o sunlight would do her good.

She sighed. "Alright, Nicky. But don't expect me to join any of your games."

Nicola's eyes sparkled with glee. "'Games,' Netta? I'm really not a child anymore, you know. I'm old enough to know not to go running about—"

"Which you do anyway," Ninette reminded her.

"—I mean to say, in nearly a week I shall commence my third year of schooling. That's hardly young, I think." The girl paused, as if to consider this. She twirled a curly blonde lock about her finger thoughtfully.  
"You're still younger than I am." Ninette stood and summoned the discarded book with a subtle flick of her wand, setting it neatly beside the window.

"Why don't you teach me to do it like that?" Nicola pouted, pointing. She seemed to have disregarded her elder sister's statement entirely.

"Because, unlike you, m'dear, I am no longer under-aged. I have been for some time now. The Ministry would not take kindly to me teaching you things outside of the wizarding world."

"Posh. You just don't want to take the time from your precious books!" Nicky retorted, placing her hands upon her hips. However annoyed she seemed to be, her lips twitched, threatening to break into a wide smile.

"I don't either!" Netta argued, though both sisters were aware the argument would not be won either way. "Now, do you wish me outdoors or not?"

Nicky grasped her hand in her own and pulled her forward, the elder's turquoise skirts swishing. The hem hid her feet from view, and it looked as though she floated along with her heels mere centimeters above the ground. If such attire was not required of her, she surely would have discarded the gown for something simpler. Nicola took pleasure in the family riches; she had been born into them; pampered from birth. Ninette, whoever, had known the poverty of a poor knight and his country-maiden wife. Only through his invaluable service to the king had wealth come for Sir Covington, and thus to his family. And she had benefitted from this. Netta was humble, Nicky was kept aloft with her head amongst the clouds.

Ninette shook her head, clearing her thoughts. _Too many thoughts for one person alone to think_, she mused, smiling. She tucked a strand of silvery blonde behind her ear and swept it into the snood atop her head with a flick of her wand.

"I do wish you'd stop showing off," Nicola muttered wryly.

The gardens were beautiful that summer, every stalk and shrub alike bursting in vivacious bloom. The girl had chosen to frolic in the orchards that day, for which her sister was glad; the season's last fruit still dripped enticingly from the trees beneath which they sat. Or rather, where the latter sat. The former had quickly situated herself between the gnarled branches of an old oak. Netta had shuddered at that. Seeing Nicky shinny into the sky had always given her a terrible fright, preferring the ground herself.

"Oh, _do_ come down!" Netta pleaded, placing her palm upon the rough bark.

Nicky laughed; she threw back her head and her curls bounced from their hold joyously. "Are you afraid for me? Well don't be. Honestly, Netta, I do this nearly every day!" She spread her arms wide and embraced a particularly heavy branch, her leg trailing along the trunk and swaying limply as though she meant to leap down then and there.

"Of course, you wouldn't know since you're always holed indoors," she added as an afterthought. "After all-" Suddenly, she fell silent.

"Netta. Netta!" she gasped. The fear in her voice was as evident as though she had written it in the air, and Ninette stood immediately, staring at the branches in which her sister rested.

"What is it?" she inquired nervously. Even from the ground, she could detect the wideness of her eyes and the stiffness with which she held herself. The girl seemed to have been frozen by time; a rare event, as she was never still, and never had been in all of Ninette's recollection. And Ninette's memory rarely lied, for even in her sleep, she recalled the tossings and turnings of Nicola Covington. Something was terribly wrong, she could sense it.

"Come quickly, no, better to return home!" With each word she spoke, the blonde's voice became more laden with panic, until she seemed to be at the point of hysteria. "Netta, our home! They're burning it!" She swayed dangerously atop her perch, as though threatening to fall, and broke into a fit of sobs.

Ninette clutched a hand to her breast in fear. The brilliant colors which had seemed before to leap at her in a bundle of happiness had lost their glory, the world she had suddenly begun to perceive in shades of grey. "_What_?" she breathed, barely above a whisper. Her ears roared with a loud rushing as though the word were about to come down around her feet.

"We must go!" the girl shouted, and leapt from the tree in such a grace that Ninette could not fathom. Her gown had spread wide, rippling and flowing; like to a fairy, she floated to the earth in a stolen moment of time. And together, they ran.

They were met with a terrible sight once they had emerged from the orchard, a scene so foul and stunning all at once it caused Nicola to fall to her knees and turn her head away. It was too awful for either of them to bear. Their manor–their home–was engulfed in a mass of fire. Flames licked at the ancient stones and devoured vast amounts of precious wood, growing higher and higher until it was an enormous column of crimson and orange. At the base was gathered a group she recognized at once from the village, laughing and jeering and calling to the haunting screams which chilled her to the very core. Formless shapes writhed in agony as the heat tore at their flesh; wolves of fire.

The pair seemed to be captivated in the sight before them. Neither girl moved nor spoke, yet both had tears streaming in silent rivers down their pale cheeks as they wept. "Do something, Netta!" Nicky moaned woefully. "Put it out! You are the only one that can."

It was as though a current of lightning had been shot throughout her body. Her wand! She searched within the folds of her gown with a maddened haste, turning out pocket after pocket to no avail. And then, there it was! She felt her fist close around it, and firmly, she withdrew it. Her hand shook and her mind reeled. She shot a jet of water at the ever-growing flames, yet in her haste, it was misguided and extinguished but a minute section of tower. Perspiration clung to her forehead, and the snood fell free, letting her locks hang wild. Momentarily, her vision became blurred.

"'Ey! There they are!" Her blood ran cold. One of the men had spotted them, and jabbed an accusing finger in their direction, shouting and running with such a speed that in but a few moments, they could have counted the threads hanging loosely from his coat.

"Nicky, run!" Ninette choked, a somewhat maternal need to protect the younger girl surfacing through her fear. She grasped her shoulders and shoved her toward the grove from whence they had come.

"Netta, I'm not leaving you here, they'll _kill_ you!" Nicky sobbed, resisting the force with which she had been shoved. The elder had succeeded in only moving her but a few staggering steps; she was not the stronger or the braver of the two, both knew this well. Nicola glared at her defiantly, her lower lip trembling, though she had bitten in an attempt to disguise this fact. Yet she had still drawn blood. "If we must face them, then we shall face them together," she continued. "The Covington line will not end here!" She stamped her foot upon the weathered earth as if to set her statement in stone. Netta laughed in spite of their dire situation.

"You truly are a Gryffindor, Nicky," she murmured in her ear as they embraced for but a moment. "Godric is smiling upon you today."

"And Rowena is seated right beside him," the latter replied, though her voice wavered slightly as it had before, catching within her throat. Netta's cheeks colored graciously.

"I am afraid that there is little that we may do for our home now, but there is a chance that we can"-Nicky's eyes flashed-"_will_ save ourselves. There is a broom shed near the furthermost edge of Mother's rose garden." It was coming to her, then, the bravery within her blood. Ninette could feel it seeping through her veins, mingling together; her father and mother giving her their strength. "We will fly from there," her tone grew stronger, "and to Hogsmeade. We will be out of harm's way there, for they cannot enter the village." She exhaled a quavering sigh, and Nicky grasped her hand once more, setting off at a run toward the garden.

"_Protego_!" Netta cried as an arrow alight with flame whizzed at their backs.

"Why are they trying to kill us?" Nicky sobbed quietly, her bravery fading for a moment. "We've done nothing wrong!"

Netta gasped as her foot caught upon a rock and tore at the leather of her boots, yet she did not stop, merely winced and carried on. "I-I do not know," she panted. "When we are safely above the town, I shall think of it more. But we must first escape." The pounding of her shoes upon the ground seemed to mimic the terrible pounding of her heart within her chest, though she could nearly feel it at the base of her throat as she ran. They could hear the angry cries of the village men in their wake, but fear was beyond her. The Covingtons had not wronged the villagers in any way, but she knew they had grown suspicious – and superstitious – though not without reason. Some things their household had let slip, rumors spread by the former help. It was natural; not to be prevented or stopped whilst in minor levels. Yet this… this had been allowed to progress too far.

The pair tore across the grounds, their breathing ragged as they entered the sanctity of the trees. Just ahead, the garden wall was visible, its white stone gleaming as though it were a beacon, calling them to its saving grace. It was as though a shimmer of hope had been ignite within her; the broom shed had come into view. "There!" she whispered, clutching at a stitch in her side whilst pointing with the tip of her want so as to not give away their destination.

It was a dilapidated shack, the wood rotting and the roof beginning to sag with an air of despondent loneliness. Vines curled about the base in a wicked manner as though guarding a stolen prize. The lock had rusted, and so hung open. Yet to them, it was the most beautiful object either had lain eyes upon. With a strangled sob of happiness, Nicola reached for the twisted iron handles as Netta regarded her movement eagerly, sucking in her breath.

And it was empty.

"We are done for." Nicky sank to her knees, defeated, as Netta gasped in horror.

"No." She shook her head slightly. "It cannot be. No one-"

"Someone has stolen them from us, Netta. There is nothing we can do." The younger sibling's voice had grown hollow and emotionless as she began to accept her fate. The elder would not, _could_ not, do the same.

"Nicola Covington, there is enough wood here to transfigure a broom. One broom, for you. It will not take both our weight, so I beseech you to let it carry yours – No, sister, you must listen. Your life has hardly begun, and I? I have already completed my schooling. What is left for one such as I to do?"

"Netta, I have told you, I am not-"

"_The Covington line will not end today_. Is that not what you so fiercely proclaimed before? Would you betray our father and mother by dying this day?" She plastered a grim smile upon her face and flicked her wand to the dreadful broom shed. At once, it bent and shrunk to a crudely-formed broomstick, the handle sleek for the most part, though from the tail, each twig poked at odd angles.

"You remember creating this spell, don't you?" Ninette laughed in reminiscence, though the sound seemed feeble and forced. She blinked quickly in an attempt to rid her eyes of their swelling tears, yet they would not cease to water. "Mother told us to do something productive, and we did!"

Nicola shook softly, as she was not afraid to stain her cheeks with the unspoken rein of sorrow. "She was so cross with us after we used her favourite chair by accident…"

"And it seems that I still have not perfected it. Would you do that for me, Nicky?" She grasped the makeshift broom tightly and held it for the other to take. "Go."

The latter paused for a moment as though she had suddenly decided against it. Then, she swept one leg over and settled upon it, the device humming as she did so as though she had brought it to life with her touch – and in a sense, she had. "Netta, my sister, I shall never forget you. I love you dearly–"

"Go," the elder urged once more. She kissed her upon the cheek and placed a hand upon her shoulder in a final good-bye. "In another life, perhaps we shall meet again. Farewell, sweet Nicky. I love you with all of my heart." As she stepped backward, Nicola kicked her feet against the ground and was lifted into the air as though her garb were made of down and she herself was but a feather, buffeted about in the blowing wind. And soon, the girl had disappeared into the heavens, soaring away to leave Netta behind.

_To die_, she thought, suddenly bitter. The selfish, more perverse part of her longed to be the one upon the broom; the one that did not need to be sacrificed so the other could survive. A life had been saved, but did it matter, really? And for how long would the aftermath of her sacrifice last? At that moment, there was nothing which seemed of sense to her at all, and she was numbed by it.

At last, it seemed, the men had found her. She put up not a struggle as they bound her wrist and ankles with coarse ropes which dug into her skin, only wept in bitter silence, and to herself. The rhythmic marching of boots had soon lulled her into a state of dreams; she felt nothing.

"Now, witch, ye shall burn! Burn like yer mother did, may the devil take the souls of ye both as ye rots in the bowels of hell!" Ninette nearly laughed, her features contorting with madness.

"Your threats mean little to me," she spat. "To slaughter me is to damn your own souls." She had begun to panic, the man's words seeping into her mind and through the very cracks which kept her sane as though it were a deadly poison. She did not wish to die. Bravery once more turned to agony and tears.

At a gesture from the leader, Ninette Covington was thrown into the emblazoned depths of her childhood home, with no means by which to escape her fate. She coughed as thick, ebony smoke filled her lungs through the absence of oxygen, and her eyes watered.

Her screams could be heard in the village as flames licked hungrily at her flesh, devouring it greedily. She was burning alive, and with each second she remained upon the earth, it was the only thought present in her mind. Netta covered her head with bubbling fingers, and cried out with one last agonizing breath, her nose filled with the odor of singing hair.

And as at last the pain had subsided and she drifted away, she was but a spectral shadow afraid of death, a lady as grey as the ashes she had left behind.


	4. The Fat Friar

_What looked like a fat little monk was saying: "Forgive and forget, I say, we ought to give him a second chance–"_

_-Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, page 115_

**The Fat Friar:  
The Tainted Mug **

It was a warm summer's eve, when naught but crickets dared to make a sound and disturb the peaceful stillness that was the night. The horizon glowed faintly, and the stars made desperate attempts to break through the light of the dying day. Those that did twinkled merrily, winking at the hilly landscape below.

A stout man with a balding crown watched the sun set in pleasant silence as he sipped from a wooden mug. He propped his large feet upon a cushion, weary from the troubles of the day, and sighed into his drink. He _had_ had a rather trying day, he reflected, what with the rebelliousness of the school children and the plaguing doxy infestation. He chuckled to himself, the fact that both the young wizards and biting fairies could be much the same suddenly surfacing in his mind. What he wouldn't do to control them a bit every so often.

More stars had begun to arise, bursting forth from the vastly-spreading darkness with respectable might. The Friar, struck by a sudden fancy, raised his mug to the heavens to toast the noble light. For this, the drink was drained entirely, and his thoughts seemed muddled and clear all at once. Hiccuping pleasantly, he recalled the day's events as his mind was soothed by the music of a glorious midsummer's night.

Young Perenelle had come to him that morning. The Friar smiled at the memory. Her face had been guilt-ridden, that was certain, though it had not been without her ever-present mischievous smile, which she had attempted to disguise by lowering her gaze to the ground and shuffling her feet. She had clasped her hands behind her back as though she had held something within them which she had wished to hide.

"_Friar Aaron, sir, they've sent me to tell you that Mr. Nicolas has got himself into a bit of an accident." She spoke this quickly, as though the words were either rehearsed or repeated nearly verbatim._

_The stout man chuckled. "Ah, and what is it that Master Nicolas has done to himself this time, Miss Perenelle? Another exploding cauldron, perchance?" His eyes twinkled merrily, and the girl glanced up at him shyly, her toe tracing innocent circles into the earth._

"_Well, I don't know exactly what," she informed him promptly. "But it isn't really that bad." Her small brow furrowed as she reconsidered this. "Well, I suppose it it. 'Tis funny, though." She giggled slightly. "You must come quickly, Friar Aaron!"  
_

_Perenelle led him to a strange sight indeed. Young Nicolas Flamel, it seemed, had sprouted an identical pair of tentacles upon his head and was attempting, without much success, to remove them. The Friar rushed to his side immediately–or rather, waddled as quickly as he could–laughing outright as he undid the spell._

"'_Tis truly a wonderful look for you, Master Nicolas. I am surprised you did not wish to keep it." He winked at the girl, who had come to stand beside him._

_Nicolas smiled ruefully, openly thankful to be rid of the jittering masses. "I should thank Perenelle, then, for bestowing upon me such a becoming feature." The Friar felt young Perenelle shift uneasily, and he heartily beamed._

"_Ah, Miss Perenelle, have you a reason for harming the poor boy, or was it perhaps a passing fancy? Whatever Master Nicolas has done, I'm sure it would have been more fair to listen first to an explanation."  
_

_Nicolas snorted at this. "Unfortunately, that seemed to have been the trouble, Friar. I'm afraid I may have deserved it."  
_

_Perenelle wrinkled her nose and stuck out her tongue at him. "You always deserve it, Nicolas." At that, she fled, leaving the Friar to imagine for himself what the boy had done to upset her so, for the latter would not tell him._

Ah, young Perenelle, the Friar mused, still holing his mug. She was a clever witch, though quick to become annoyed, so eager to learn. And, he added as an afterthought, so infatuated with poor Nicolas. He shook his head, smiling to himself. They would make a smart pair, though he was not about to play matchmaker. Why, young Perenelle had not yet begun her first year of schooling at Hogwarts! He refilled his empty mug graciously.

Perenelle had also been the one to discover the doxy problem, although it had been entirely by accident. He had taught them a summoning charm that day, calling the small group of children inside just after Nicolas had been rid of his tentacles. They had all been delighted to larn such a useful trick. So delighted, in fact, that he feared they might incessantly use it until the entire abbey was out of place. At the thought, he chuckled merrily.

_Friar Aaron patrolled the enclosed classroom, dodging airborne objects which suddenly tended to fall upon the floor halfway to their destination. He enjoyed teaching the children new things at the abandoned abbey, though he knew quite well that they would not learn such spells until far later in their schooling. Most of them had not yet even glimpsed the school, much less attended it, and so he did not think it would do them any harm to learn of what lay ahead._

_Perenelle seemed to be having little difficulty mastering the charm, much to the dismay of her companion, Percival, who tended to require a bit more time than she at learning such things. Though, the Friar reflected, he seemed to excel at concocting potions. He paused to correct the boy's grasp upon his wand, then continued to the next pair._

_Suddenly, Perenelle let forth a loud cry, and it seemed that the entirety of the room started. The Friar turned and saw that at her feet lay a small and rather disgruntled-looking black creature. Percival prodded it with his wand. The doxy clamped onto the tip, holding fast even when he began to hit it against a table in hopes to release his wand from the creature's jaws._

"_Now, now, Master Dumbledore," the Friar said reproachfully, coming to stand beside the boy. He took the wand gently between his own pudgy fingers. "We don't want to be harming it." Followed by a small crowd, which seemed to be half frightened and half enthralled, he carried it to the door and shook it until it came loose and zoomed angrily away._

"_Friar Aaron?" Perenelle asked timidly. "What if. . . What if there are more of them?" She grimaced and looked absolutely horrified at the thought._

"_Then we shall have to find them and set them free, will we not?" he said amiably, and the girl's eyes widened as she shuddered noticeably. After that, she seemed to have disappeared in one of the far corners of the room, muttering quietly to Percival, who appeared not to be in the least bit interested in what she had to tell him._

The Friar settled more comfortably into his chair, the only light save for that of the heavens being the flickering of candles inside of the abbey. Yet, as it lay in the valley below, he was engulfed nearly entirely in darkness. He did not mind, however, for it was peaceful enough as such. Perhaps he would bring the children later that night, and he would teach them a bit of astronomy. No doubt if they learned a bit now, it would not be so very difficult in a few year's time. Not, of course, that he expected them to understand it just yet, for it was far too complex for their young minds. Even he, who had always been fascinated by the stars, did not always fully comprehend. The man gazed at the sky in wonder.

Soon, he heard the soft sound of approaching footsteps. "Friar Aaron?" It was Perenelle.

"Ah, Miss Perenelle," he greeted pleasantly. "What is it that brings you here this fine summer's eve? Should you not be abed?"

She sat upon the grass at his feet. "I did _try_, Friar. Really, I did. But I'm not all that tired, and Nicolas is badgering me." The girl crossed her arms and sighed, silent for a moment thereafter. "What are you looking at?"

He glanced at the sky, and Perenelle lay flat upon her back to do the same. She chewed at her lip; her eyes were wide in awe.

"They're so pretty," she murmured, quieted by the wondrous sight.

"Indeed," he nodded, looking at the girl and smiling. As she stayed at the abbey during summers whilst her parents were away, the Friar had come to think of Perenelle as the daughter he never had. He had not yet told her this, though he imagined she knew somehow. In the many years he had been acquainted with her, she had always been extremely perceptive. No doubt he would find her placed into Ravenclaw someday, and while it was not his own House, he knew it was one in which she belonged.

His eyes danced and he glanced at his mug. _Strange_, he thought, furrowing his brow. For it had been filled as though from it he had never drank. The Friar dipped his finger into it as though to test its contents, and found that he was by no means imagining its presence. Perhaps he had refilled it and did not remember. With a shrug, he sipped it gingerly.

He instantly withdrew his lips from the brim. The drink had been of a more bitter quality than he recalled it being before. Although, beneath the bitterness lay still the familiar sweet taste of his favorite mead.

It must have been sitting for too long, he decided. Some of the flavor had settled to the bottom, and he had forgotten to mix it before he drank. That was it. Friar Aaron nodded discreetly as though to reinforce this idea to himself. It was too dark to distinguish the color of the liquid within his faithful mug, and the thought that perhaps such was an important thing to do did cross his mind. He consumed the drink generously, smacking his lips and sighing in contentment.

"What's that star called, Friar Aaron?" young Perenelle inquired, pointing at a particularly bright prick of light.

He glanced upward, following the direction of her gaze, and suddenly felt a spell of dizziness. He shook his head, hoping to rid himself of the feeling, yet it would not cease. The star seemed to fade and become blurred, until it was naught but an unfocused white spot before his eyes. "I-I'm not quite sure," he managed to say, and had the faint notion that the girl was watching him curiously.

"Friar, are you alright?" There was concern in her tone, though he was nearly unable to take notice. He had suddenly become exceedingly warm, and the dense summer air seemed to press in at him. He could feel the fat drops of perspiration swell and trickle down his flesh.

That was when his breath ceased to come entirely. He coughed, attempting to clear his throat of whatever it was which had caused it to become as such. He made to draw in air, yet found there to be none. His eyes bulged and he promptly stood, knocking over the bench upon which he had previously seated himself.

"Friar?"

He turned to her, bile bubbling into his constricted airway, yet he could not seem to release it. Perenelle looked on at him in horror, her face starkly white beneath her fingers. Her feet staggered backward and she nearly stumbled. "I'll-I'll fetch some help!" she cried, breaking into a sprint.

"Bezoar!" the Friar managed to gurgle. "Be. . .zoar!"

Where was his wand? He frantically searched the pockets of his brown robes. In his panic, he could not locate it. His mind spun more quickly, and his chest throbbed. The scenery surrounding him merged into one large mass, shadows leering at him from their darkened coves. Spots forming before his eyes, and he tripped, landing with a loud _thump_ that resonated within his ears.

Suddenly, he was not choking any longer. In fact, he could feel nothing, yet everything seemed perfectly clear. It was as though the accursed drink he had never consumed. The Friar sighed in relief, laughing now at the terrible fright he had just experienced. He would have to tell young Perenelle that he fared well, and not to worry her poor little head.

As he started down the hill, he was overcome with the strange sensation that his feet were not coming in contact with the ground. What a peculiar night! he thought to himself. He could see the girl running toward him.

"Miss Perenelle!" he called merrily, waving. "Not to worry, I'm quite all right!"

She stopped dead, her face perhaps whiter than it had been the time he had last seen her. "F-Fr–" She seemed unable to speak.

The Friar brought his hand forward to pat her shoulder comfortingly. "There now," he told her. "What ever is the matter?" Then he paused. His hand, suddenly colorless, had gone directly through her. She gave a shudder, and fainted.


	5. Nearly Headless Nick

_"That does look good," said the ghost in the ruff sadly, watching Harry cut up his steak. _

"Can't you–?"

"I haven't eaten for nearly four hundred years," said the ghost. "I don't need to, of course, but one does miss it. I don't think I've introduced myself? Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, at your service. Resident ghost of Gryffindor Tower."  
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, page 124

Of Blunt Axe and Lady Fair:  
Nearly Headless Nick

It was midnight, the moment which was neither one day or another but a time trapped between as if pressed in the middle of two worlds. The horizon glowed a sorrowful blue, yet the heavens were ebony as though blackened with ash, the moon hiding her face behind it. For the man standing beneath the twisted branches of a tree once struck by lightening, it was morning. Or rather, the morning was about to begin, and he waited for it to do so with anxiety thrashing at the sides of his stomach. To any eyes which decided to look upon him then, his face would have been as placid and collected as it had the ability to be at any time. Yet he knew how to control his fears, and to suppress them until they did not control his features, for men, like hawks, easily noticed the signs of uncertainty upon someone who they looked to with hope.

The stars began to fade ever so slightly, as if the ash had been carried by wind across them and coated them with a thin layer, and the man turned from the sky. It was the morning of the thirty-first of October, and the calm before the storm began had been broken.

"Sir Nicholas? A word, if you please."

The man–Sir Nicholas–turned to look at the shadowed face of another knight. He nodded toward him and leaned forward, for he knew their voices must be soft.

"Have you a plan to be executed for the coming battle?" His eyes were expectant, yet clouded with worry.

"Could you expect anything less from me, Benjamin? Come, let us convene."

Sir Nicholas smiled, though the warmth did not pass further than the corners of his mouth, and steered Sir Benjamin to a pile of embers which had almost turned to ash. They had been allowed nothing more, for fear that even the smallest of flames would endanger their secrecy. Had it not been nearing winter, even embers would have been forbidden. What little warmth they provided was still enough to draw a cluster of men to it through all hours of the night.

That morning, however, there were large gaps in the usually tightly-knit circle. Sir Nicholas supposed they had drifted off to places in which they could reflect alone, or merely rest without the burden of another man beside them. And this he could understand, for he had spent the last hour of the night in the company of no one but the hidden moon.

The pair of knights drew themselves into the most remote point to which the smouldering heat would reach, sitting upon an old log whose branches–now stumps–protruded comfortably into their legs. As Benjamin seated himself, Nicholas murmured inaudibly beneath his breath, and at once, the log was smooth. Benjamin glanced at it for a moment, seeming as if he was about to touch its surface.

"Magic," he sighed, nigh wistful. "I still cannot believe–no, listen to me not. It is you who must speak." He ran a gloved hand through his hairline.

Nicholas was silent for a moment, as he recalled their task and reassessed the decisions he had made before he spoke them aloud. One week prior, the lady of the castle–whom, upon being bound in matrimony, would become queen–had been snatched from her private quarters, and in her place had been lain a note. A note which proclaimed her as a hostage of a neighboring kingdom with whom at one point in history they had been particularly hostile. And thus such belligerence between them still had caused the king–a proud yet noble man–to disregard the note's instructions, and to instead send forth his knights for the rescue of his daughter.

Sir Nicholas was a knight much admired by His Lordship. Brave, was he, whose courage surpassed that of many a man. It was upon a personal favor that he now watched the stronghold which held her from afar.

"Bring her home to me, Nicholas," he had beseeched, clasping his bejeweled fingers about the knight's firmly. "It is you whom I know I may trust to do so."

"My Lord," Sir Nicholas had murmured as he bent upon one knee.

And so it was but King James and one other man who knew that he himself was not an ordinary man at all.

The embers played at the expression in Benjamin's eyes, for nearer to them he had unconsciously bent to hear the words of Sir Nicholas. The latter knight sighed.

"This shall not be a gentleman's battle," he said, suddenly hoarse, "for we are to have the upper hand."

"And what is that to be?" Benjamin eagerly inquired.

As an answer, he first pulled the wand from his pocket, before hidden, then met the gaze of the other man. "We cannot lose."

When nigh each footstep they would take had been discussed between the, the men parted to inform their comrades of the plan.

As the sun began to pull its way above the horizon, the knights formed a cluster as they mounted their anxious steeds. Sir Nicholas and Sir Benjamin pulled their mounts from amidst the others and galloped to the front.

"Knights!" cried the former as his hand rose into the air. "Comrades! Friends! We prepare for battle in the noble name of our king. Some of you may perish in the name of our king. But for brave men as ourselves, this is the most noble thing of all!"

A cheer was let forth from the mass in response to this statement. Their armor flashed in the slowly rising sun.

"We shall slay our dragons!" he continued. "And we will bring our princess home!"

With this and thoughts of glory in mind, the knights dug their heels into the sides of their mounts, urging them forward and into a heavy gallop. The hooves of that of Sir Nicholas pounded upon the barren ground, and cyclones of earth were created beneath them with each stride. The fortress ahead grew closer, until at length the very parapets atop the formidable walls could be seen. He took a moment to glance at Sir Benjamin, who nodded.

Nicholas and Benjamin had been companions even in the unruly years of boyhood. Since first they had crossed wooden training swords, it became a dream that they would one day battle together as allies, and as knights. That they might one day serve the king was stimulus enough for the vigorous training they underwent.

Before they had decided upon their purpose, fishing and swimming in the pond had sufficed to content them. And then Nicholas had received his Hogwarts letter, and to the dismay of Benjamin, he was herded off into the entirely different world that was his schooling. Benjamin had not learned of the nature of his education until several days after the princess had been taken. And such information formed the rift that had formed between them. Both learned that the other had taken a wife, and now both were fulfilling their dreams as they had hoped for in their youth.

Their plan, Nicholas reflected, was simple, though he was aware that without himself, it would be nigh impossible, if not completely so, to carry out. He would cast a Disillusionment Charm when they drew near; if this could not be done, the sentries of the opposition would be killed by their archers. From there, they would proceed to scale the walls of the castle, and once inside the keep they would begin the search for the place the princess was imprisoned.

Suddenly, Sir Nicholas faltered, and his horse tossed his head. There was something amiss, something he had not accounted for. All too late, he realized that their arrival had not gone by unnoticed, for he could see the heavy wooden drawbridge being slowly lowered. They would, he knew, be met with a force to rival their own.

"DRAW BACK!" he bellowed to his charging knights. "Draw back, we are within range–"

He was abruptly cut short as an arrow sliced through the air, narrowly missing Benjamin, for instead of piercing the flesh of his companion, it struck the man just behind him. When he turned in horror at his miscalculation, the path of the arrow between them was still warm.

Yet his men persisted, leaving the body of the fallen behind. He could hear the terrified whinnies of the now-riderless mount as the others passed by; he could feel its desperation as it reared up.

Nicholas had seen battle before. He had fought it, and had brought victory to his kingdom. This siege was nothing to compare to the lengthy wars which had plagued the country. And yet, he took each one as though it was the most important of all. And for once, perhaps, this comma in the book of history was. Wars were fought over land, money, and power. Brave men had died for the sake of greed. Yet when last had something been so pure as the rescue of a damsel in distress? Encouraged, Sir Nicholas withdrew his sword from his sheath, then removed his wand from where it had been hidden in his saddle.

The enemy was nearly upon them, then. As he had anticipated only minutes before, their numbers were great; greater even, perhaps, than their own. They were not noble men; he could see this from their lack of traditional armor. They were to fight rogues and thieves: men with little limitations or vulnerability but for physical protection.

"Til the end, my brother," Sir Benjamin said beside him, his voice rising above the clamor of hoof beats.

"Til the end!" Sir Nicholas agreed.

Just as a flurry of arrows was released toward them, he cast a Shield Charm over them, and the arrows seemed to strike the air above, sickly reminiscent to rain drops.

"God is with us!" someone cried triumphantly, yet the man at the front heard him not.

And then suddenly, as it no one could have foreseen it, the armies collided. With the clash of metal meeting metal was forged a living seam between the two, the roar of such an encounter deafening. The Shield Charm had not withheld, though he had not expected it to. Casting one now would be foolish; they could not risk protecting more than their own knights.

The battle raged with the likeness of a full-fledged storm. The dying thundered, swords flashed in the sun. The smell of blood and urine mingled with the earth was upon the air. Side-by-side, Benjamin and Nicholas battled their way through the mass of force and steel, each minute bringing them closer to the opened mouth of the fortress.

"To your right!" Nicholas called, Stunning a man with a dagger grasped in his hand as he approached the flank of Benjamin's horse. The warning had hardly been uttered when the frozen attacker was run through.

Nicholas strengthened his grip upon the hilt of his sword, for perspiration had loosened it. Perspiration that had also begun to drip into his eyes, obscuring his vision. For a moment, he could not see, yet a moment was a moment too long.

His mount screamed in anguish as its leg was sliced, sending Nicholas to the ground as the animal reared, then fell. The impact came quickly and left him in a temporary daze. From seemingly far away, he saw the rogue that had crippled his horse come toward him, weapon raised. The point glistened as it approached. Recovering in an instant, he rolled to the side just as the sword was driven into the place where he had been. In one swift motion, the man was dead.

Gasping for air, Sir Nicholas pressed on toward the drawbridge, Benjamin at his heels–for he, too, had abandoned his mount. It was guarded by no one, and they were soon inside.

Within the walls, it was deathly quiet, as though all inhabitants were doubling as warriors for the day. Even all sounds of the battle just outside were lost in the emptiness; they were reduced to whispers of wind that spun small clusters of leaves about upon the cracked stone ground. The pair of knights paid no heed to this, however, for their eyes were cast above, wary of murder holes as they walked through the entrance.

The fortress appeared to be of such an age that it was ill-designed for defense, for already, they had reached the courtyard. At its center rested an enormous stone fountain which produced naught but the growing layers of dust upon its surface. Vines curled about its base and crept into the basin, a waterfall of dying green. The men made not a sound, for their footsteps were dulled by moss and weeds.

"Blimey," Benjamin breathed in wonder as he removed his helmet. "It appears to be abandoned."

Nicholas soon followed suit, relishing the feel of the cool October air upon his skin. "We should not assume anything just yet, although I cannot help but feel that you are right."

"Perhaps even the princess is no longer here," the former thought aloud.

The latter furrowed his brow and frowned. Then he sheathed his sword, replacing it into the scabbard at his hip, and lay his wand flat against his upturned palm. For seconds, it remained motionless, when suddenly it seemed to come to life as it rapidly spun against his hand. Benjamin eyed it curiously.

After several turns, it decidedly ceased to move, pointing ahead of them, yet slightly north.

"She's here," Nicholas murmured, nodding.

"And what was that?" his companion inquired in awe, his gaze still fixed upon the wand.

"Erised," he explained with a small chuckle. "A spell contrived from a mirror at Hogwarts–my school–which reflects what you most long for. In this form, however, it does not reflect, but points. My wife was a contributor to its creation."

Benjamin questioned him no further on the matter, and the men were once more silent and alert. They followed the direction in which the wand pointed as though it were a compass, and soon it had led them to a doorway driven into stone. Like to the fountain, vines curled about it, entwining and nigh obscuring it from those with less than a watchful eye. It appeared that recently, they had been shifted slightly aside, revealing a rusted knob and keyhole.

Benjamin hesitated.

"She is down there," the wizard murmured, and attempted to open the door. "_Alohamora_," he stated, removing his wand from its perch. With a dull click from within, the door swung inward.

"_Lumos_," he whispered, and brushed the vines aside.

The passage was narrow and dank. He could hear water dripping upon the ground somewhere nearby, and the only light was that which spewed from the tip of his wand. Ahead of them, it stretched in a slight but constant decline, and at one point, it seemed as though the floor vanished entirely, and only a void of blackness remained. The air was thick and warm, though there was little warmth to it the further they traversed.

After several careful minutes, the knights came upon what they had before believed to be a drop, but now discovered it was a steep flight of stairs leading deeper into the earth. Nicholas shone his wand upon it; at the bottom was another door. They were cautious of the crumbling stone as they climbed down, though it was without mishap that they reached their destination. And once there, Nicholas extinguished their light and bathed them in darkness.

The door was open, much to their quiet surprise. Beyond it, torches flickered in their brackets, casting a yellow glow upon the knights. It was a dungeon, though the many barred cells seemed to more be fit to cage wild animals. The stench which met them was nigh overpoweringly foul. Beside him, Benjamin choked.

"Do you see her?" he whispered. "That Erised spell, will it–"

"I need my wand for protection. I will search here. You should start over there."

He agreed, and with that, the knights separated.

Nicholas crept through the numerous rows he had designated himself to search, peering into each cell as he passed. All were empty, all but one, but it was one that he could not find.

Suddenly, a light and feminine voice shattered the silence. "Is someone there?" it called.

Nicholas rushed toward whence it had come. "Hello?" it called again, then dissolved into a fit of coughs.

"Princess?" he inquired as he reached the cell.

Her fair cheeks were besmirched by dirty patches of brown and grey, and in her hair were bits of molding straw. Her once elegant gown was in tatters, and already, her eyes seemed sunken into her skull. She crawled forward and clasped his hands through the bars which separated them.

"I thank you," she murmured, and coughed once more.

"Stand back," he commanded gently, and she obeyed, retreating to a filthy corner.

With magic, the door was easily unlocked. Sir Nicholas held out his hand. "Hurry, Princess," he coaxed, yet she did not move.

And then she screamed, her face contorting with horror. He turned in surprise, only to find a monster of a man behind him, the glint of an axe arched above him. Nicholas stumbled awkwardly into the cell as the weapon sliced through the air toward him. He could no longer hear the cries of the princess, only the sound of adrenaline coursing through his body.

The man swung again, and he parried with a Shield Charm. He shot a Stunning Spell but missed, and it was all the giant needed. Nicholas felt himself fall as the man's leg lashed out into his stomach, winding him and forcing a coppery taste into his mouth. His head hit metal, and he grasped blindly for his wand; yet it was to no avail. It had been knocked from his hands.

With a grin twisting his enormous features, the giant held him captive with his foot, and Nicholas could but watch as the axe sped toward his neck. A searing pain wracked through his body, and through fading vision, saw the princess faint. Her mouth was still open in a silent scream, and her dress was now spattered with blood.


	6. Professor Binns

**Author's Notes:** You will notice that this chapter is very short, and seems rather abrupt at the end. This is done for a reason, so I'd like for you to keep that in mind. You'll also notice that this is the second-to-last chapter.

* * *

**Augurey Lullabies:  
Professor Binns**

A deep and penetrating chill had overcome the castle, seeing into even the most inaccessible of corners. As the months of winter neared and progressed each year, it was always the same. Yet for some, as each day passed, the cold grew more prominent and instilled itself in the very marrow of their bones. Bones that were old and thin and fragile, just as were the bodies for which they created form. However, such bones were scarce within Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, for its walls housed a large portion of wizarding youth, whose exuberance seemed to make them immune to the true nature of the season.

Still, it was not so cold to force water to freeze into ice and snow, and so a heavy rain lashed against the castle that evening. The glass panes inset into each window shuddered within its frame as thunder rolled across the deeply darkening sky, briefly illuminating as bolts of lightning shot through the clouds. Through sorrowful eyes, a green-plumed bird watched the onslaught of droplets, giving a low, despondent cry as they fell until it was fused into a melancholy song.

There was a rustle of movement as the augurey started from its perch upon the back of a winged chair. A chair whose occupant too had stirred just a moment before.

Cuthbert Binns raised a papery hand to calm it, age-spotted fingers deftly stroking its feathers until it nuzzled its head against him. He murmured softly an inaudible statement, and the bird closed its eyes.

At the subtle sound of a door opening, the eyes of both man and fowl flew open, wide and alert. A young witch entered the room, her Head Girl badge gleaming in the firelight.

"Ah, my apologies, Professor, the girl said, stepping in further. "I didn't know you'd be sleeping."

"That's quite alright, Miss Merrythought," he replied quietly. His voice was low and dry as though parched. "I was merely resting. Is there a matter you wished to discuss?"

"Yes, Sir. The Headmaster sent me to tell you that he has called a meeting, for the Heads of Houses. It's in the staff lounge, at ten-thirty tonight."

Cuthbert nodded. "Very well, then. Thank you, Miss Merrythought."

When she hesitated, he looked at her sharply through his spectacles. "Is there something else?"

The girl looked uncomfortable. "Er, he wanted me to accompany you—"

"You may tell the Headmaster that I am in no need of assistance," he interrupted. "And I shall be there shortly."

"Yes, Sir," she nodded, knowing not to press further, and turned from the room.

With a sigh, he glanced at the clock upon his desk. The thin hands pointed out ten-twenty-five. The girl must have been delayed, or had otherwise delayed herself, for he knew the Headmaster as one to give a much greater forewarning than that which had just been delivered. Galatea Merrythought, though in possession of a quick wit, was not a member of his own House; rather, she was suitably placed in Gryffindor. Always did she mean well—for that was why he himself had recommended her as Head Girl—yet there were occasions in which he could not help but believe that a Ravenclaw was better suited, or perhaps simply more reliable.

Cuthbert closed his eyes and braced his arms upon those of the chair as he prepared to stand. With a grinding, nigh unearthly creak, he stood, his bones protesting their sudden shift in position. He breathed deeply for a moment, and then glanced once more at the clock. A minute had passed since he last had looked. A proper forewarning would have allowed him to traverse to the staff lounge by way of foot, yet now he was presented with little choice but to travel by fireplace. He was partial to walking, having done a great deal of it in his youth, though as of late, he had found the castle to be far too chilled to venture far from his usual places in the edifice. At the very least, the utilization of Floo Powder would bring a bit of warmth to him; it seemed as though he could never escape the cold which constantly clenched at his flesh.

With a shaking arm, he reached to pat the head of the augurey, then turned to the fireplace. His fingers quivered as he fumbled with the lid of the jar in which the powder was contained, so much so that it fell to the floor and rolled to a stop at his shoes. There it would have to lie until he returned, he decided, not feeling that he had the time to replace it upon the jar. It seemed so strange; only the day before, it felt as though his grip had been sturdy and firm. However, the day before might have also been a lifetime ago, or perhaps merely a century. Time had little place or sense of being to a man whose two-hundredth birthday had passed more decades ago than he could readily recall. Like most men, he was proud, but unlike many, he was reasonable, and could not deny the truths that logic provided. Cuthbert Binns had, at some point either in history or the present, become old.

The fire roared up in a rush, greedily devouring the Floo Powder nigh as soon as it was dropped. The aged man inched forward, summoning an ebony cane from the air around him. This was a last measure, for he had always prided himself in his punctuality. In all of his life, never had he been a moment late, nor had he been a moment early.

"The staff lounge," he wheezed, and pulled himself into the now emerald flames.

Just as he had hoped and predicted, he was instantaneously encompassed in a feeling of warmth, and he relished the few seconds he found himself experiencing it. The spinning did catch him off-guard, however, for he had not remembered it being so dizzying. When at last he reached his destination, he leaned heavily upon his cane, breathing deeply as he had before. And nearly as soon as he emerged from the fireplace, he felt someone at his side.

"I am perfectly capable, Miss Merrythought," he panted.

"Cuthbert." The voice was low and stern, though not unfriendly. He blinked, struggling to peer at the speaker and adjust his spectacles simultaneously.

"Ah, Edward, I'm afraid I didn't—"

"You caused Miss Merrythought a great deal of distress when he refused her assistance, you must realize," the young Headmaster told him gently. Begrudgingly, Cuthbert allowed the man to lead him to a chair—one which, he did not fail to notice, was the nearest to the fire.

"And _you_ must realize that, as I have said many a time before, I am perfectly capable of movement _without_ assistance…"

"No doubt you meant to walk all this way—"

"Never mind me, Edward." He waved his hand in slight impatience, settling comfortably into the cushion which the chair provided. "I doubt that this meeting was called the discuss the habits that come with age."

Edward nodded, and then glanced about the room. The three remaining Heads of Houses had arrived respectively within two minutes of each other, and were regarding him with expectance.

"Very well," he sighed, and moved to the center of the room. "As Cuthbert as just informed us, I have not called this meeting to discuss matters that would now seem redundant to us. It has come to my attention that there have been a series of… _attacks_, perhaps one might say, between members of different Houses. The rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin has escalated to such a degree that—"

"I thought we were avoiding redundancy," a stout witch muttered as she adjusted the position of her yellow and black scarf. The man beside her chuckled appreciatively, though Edward scowled.

"_This time_, Augusta, it differs. Numerous students have already been sent to the Hospital Wing, and are under intensive care. Members of your House as well, if I must remind you."

"It is alarming, I admit, but—"

"It's understandable!" barked the man who had chuckled before. Cuthbert gave a sigh into his cold hand, though this exhaling of breath soon turned into a loud and resonating cough. He needed not to look up to sense Edward's alarm.

"Edward," he growled when once more he could breathe. The Headmaster was nigh a child to him, and had little understanding of age. There was no reason for him to possess such knowledge, though at times, his ignorance caused Cuthbert to become weary. The man had always cared too much; Cuthbert knew this well, for he had taught Edward throughout the entirety of his schooling.

"It's understandable," the Head of Gryffindor reiterated, though with less enthusiasm than before. "After all, what with the approach of the Triwizard Tournament so near, students simply wish to increase their chances of being selected as a champion."

"Sabotage is inexcusable, Orion! We must…"

It was then that Cuthbert found himself unable to hear as clearly, and his eyelids began to lower as though weighted with bags of sand. Like slipping beneath the surface of a Lake, his muscles relaxed, and he drifted off into slumber, heaving one last, great sigh. Somewhere in the castle, an augurey gave a low, mournful cry, and the rain drummed on.


	7. Moaning Myrtle

**Author's Notes:** This chapter, the last chapter, is rather strange. But then again, so is Myrtle.

* * *

**Moaning Myrtle:  
The Irrationalities of Despair**

It was a strange feeling, floating, the girl decided whilst in the process of doing this very thing. Most especially if one was floating _outside_ of one's own body.

It was likely that there were many romantic terms for that which had occurred, but the girl did not believe in poetry, or even romanticisms, for that matter. She had never understood the former and had never been privileged enough to experience the latter, and so she was blunt. The girl was dead and she was a ghost; to her, there were no better words to describe it.

Everything had begun early that morning—rather, everything that would later lead to her encounter with death. The girl remembered awakening early enough to steal past her roommates and into the common room where she had known it would be quiet for a while. It would be no use, she had thought, to wait in her dormitory until the others arose. After all, they merely would have teased her about her appearance as they did every morning, and she was tired of enduring their taunts. She only wished that she had thought of this sooner, leaving while everyone was still asleep.

The girl sat idle upon one of the many poufs scattered about the room, glad to at last be alone. How nice it was to simply sit and _be_…

Her lips bunched into a pout as sounds began to drift from behind the closed doors at one side of the room, and then another. But as she did not care to discover precisely who it was that had got up and was now milling about, she slung the wide strap of her book bag over one shoulder and hastily scuttled into the outside corridor.

Unfortunately, this was still not hasty enough, for she heard someone catch the door behind her. The girl sighed, wondering what name would be chosen to give her today and wishing that a teacher was somewhere nearby. There would be no one to fuss over her this time, no one to reprimand whoever was undoubtedly following her now.

Just as this thought entered her mind, she felt her foot become caught upon something and she stumbled forward, her slightly fleshy hands reaching out to meet cold stones. Her neck ached as she strained to see what it was that she had tripped over; she saw nothing on the ground behind her, and so decided that it was the fault of her own feet.

"Forget your glasses, Myrtle?" The voice that said this was not kind as it could have been; rather, it was everything she had grown accustomed to.

But then another thought struck her. Her glasses!

"You're so forgetful," the voice continued, "that you can't even remember that you need to see!" There was a chuckle, though soon it grew into full-fledged laughter that echoed in the emptiness around them. As Myrtle struggled to her feet, the only other person within the vicinity laughed harder. "Really, I'm surprised you even made it this far before you fell flat on your face!"

Her cheeks were red and her lips were pursed, her brow knitted in concentration when she was finally able to stand. She looked to whence the voice had come and was not surprised to find Olive Hornby consumed with bouts of now-silent giggles. Her curly blonde ringlets bounced as she did so, and Myrtle touched her own hair—dark, straight, and lifeless—in a self-conscious manner. Olive was so much prettier than she was, she thought gloomily.

The other girl's hand disappeared into her pocket for a moment, then she withdrew it with something clutched inside of her fingers. A second later, the object fell with a clatter to the ground, metal and glass against stone.

"You oughtn't forget them next time," Olive said dismissively, and kicked the glasses away from her as though distracted. "Otherwise, that _thing_ might get you." She watched, gleeful, as Myrtle scrambled to pick them up.

Myrtle's throat clenched and her vision blurred even more as fat globs of tears spilled from her eyes. The frames of her spectacles were still intact, but the lenses had shattered when they reached the floor. Thankfully, her fingers managed to remain uncut as she picked them up, though this was not quite helpful; she wasn't fond of the sight of blood, but Olive would have been sickened had the glass sliced her flesh.

"Rep-repairey," she muttered, her voice thick as she tapped her wand against the glasses. When nothing happened, she let forth a wail of despair. "Repair!" she commanded. "Just fix yourselves!"

After several such attempts, the lenses were able to fit once more inside their metal frames, though she had to do this without her wand. She had never been able to fully master the spell.

Spectacles perched upon her nose, she looked up, expecting to see Olive Hornby still there, but the girl had left and the corridor was once more quiet. Myrtle squinted; the focus wasn't quite right. She would have to write home for a new pair.

A low growling from her stomach told her that it was time to head to the Great Hall for breakfast. Hungrily, she imagined the smell of pumpkin juice and kippers… But then she shook her head, ridding herself of the image. Perhaps she would refrain from eating today, she thought. It might cause someone to worry about her for at least once in her life. Yet another rumble from her midsection advised her otherwise, and she decided to listen to it. There would be many opportunities in the future to draw attention to herself—the sort of attention that she wanted.

There were two troubles with being sorted into Hufflepuff at Hogwarts. The first was that the basement in which the common room hid was located so far beneath the main body of the school that it was impossible to go anywhere without ascending several lengthy flights of stairs. Myrtle always arrived at the top of them with a face flushed and forehead lightly brushed with perspiration, huffing and puffing for as long as it required to reach whatever destination she had in mind.

The second was the misconceptions about the members of her House. Hufflepuffs were supposed to be friendly and kind, and yet Myrtle knew them to be anything but. Indeed, they could be just as cruel as the Slytherins were—or rather, were rumored to be; Myrtle had never before conversed with a Slytherin, and so she could not be certain of their general disposition. However, she was apt to believe what she heard, and so she had already judged them.

The corridors themselves were quiet, frightening her a little. Most especially since she had heard talk of students disappearing over the past month with little explanation for their absences. Not that she had noticed any of this herself, of course; she was still simply feeding from a trough of rumors. Although, she thought, she was careful about choosing which ones she believed were true. Minerva McGonagall certainly wasn't studying to become an animagus, after all!

Myrtle imagined what it must have been like to be taken by whatever it was that now snuck throughout the school. Perhaps it took its victims into the very deepest of the dungeons, where one was allowed to fester and feel sorry for oneself. The concept of Olive Hornby hanging by her ankles in a dark, filthy cell cheered her considerably, and she quickened her steps, remembering her hunger.

The Great Hall seemed to be packed tightly with nearly everyone that could fit inside of it, in spite of the fact that it was still relatively early in the morning. Warm air rushed at her as she passed through the large doorway, and she unconsciously licked her lips; already, each of the four elongated tables within was heavily laden with breakfast foods.

There was an empty space at the very end of the Hufflepuff table that had most likely been reserved for her, so it was to this place that she headed straight for. She sat herself upon the bench with a graceless _thud_ and reached for an unclaimed goblet just within her grasp. As she touched the golden stem, it instantly was filled to the brim with a pleasant-looking, orange liquid.

Myrtle had only just begun to each when she felt the thin hairs upon the back of her neck stand on end. "_Four-eyes_," someone whispered just behind her ear, close enough for her to feel breath against her skin. With her fork still clasped in her hand, she turned her head to see who had said this to her.

And who else but Olive, not quite satisfied with the remarks she had last left Myrtle with?

"You can't even fix your own _glasses_ properly!" she howled. "Though with eyesight like yours, I'm surprised you even managed to put them back together without accidentally killing something."

The few students that were unfortunate enough to be sitting near Myrtle sniggered, only the politest of whom hiding their amusement behind their napkins. Olive tossed her head, a glint in both her hair and eyes.

"I suppose that's the only excuse for how you look," she continued, encouraged by her audience. "Though even a _blind_ man knows when ugliness is afoot, especially if it's staring at him through great, thick rims! _I_ think it's all for the better that the lenses make your eyes appear smaller, you know, because even at this size, I'm sick of looking at—"

Myrtle nearly fell as she swung her legs over the bench and got to her feet, rising only to flee from the Great Hall. Like footprints, laughter lingered in her wake until it disappeared, not only from her own ears but those of others as well. Her chest ached as she ran, her breaths coming as gulping sobs amidst pants and gasps. She didn't know where she was going, precisely; Olive was right: her vision was greatly lacking.

Still, she was not surprised to find herself at the entrance of the girl's bathroom whose relative location she could never quite remember. All Myrtle could recall was that this was a premium haunt, a place where her wails reverberated upon the tiles as though she was not alone in her feelings of angst. Without a second though, she entered one of the many stalls and locked the door behind her.

She perched herself atop the closed toilet seat, sniffing and rubbing the skin beneath her eyes until it felt raw. Her hands were sticky and her thoughts were consumed with despair. No matter what it was that she told herself, she did not enjoy moments such as this where there was no one to be pitied but herself, by herself. But she _did_ enjoy being pitied by others, being though of every so often. That's why she wasn't a Gryffindor; she'd heard tell that Gryffindors never accepted sympathy. But of course, whether they liked it or not, they were incessantly receiving such condolences for their petty affairs. Myrtle wanted this but could not have it. There were likely a thousand eloquent ways to put it, but she was a simple-minded girl with thoughts that were blunt. No one loved her, and there was no better way to put it.

She remained this way for quite some time without disturbance and without the care that she might be disturbing someone else. Not that she was; certainly by now, the entirety of the school would know that miserable, moaning, moping Myrtle had holed herself in the lavatory again. They wouldn't want to bother her, and she only wanted them to because that would present her the opportunity to send them away. Almost like a Gryffindor could.

Suddenly, she heard the bathroom door creak open; yet instead of hearing the latest gossip and hurried chatter, this simple sound was accompanied only by silence. Myrtle ignored it, supposing that it was merely one of the ghosts or someone else who had come to frighten her. Never mind that footsteps, heavy yet light, too, soon echoed throughout the room.

And then came a voice that was not a voice, hissing deeply like the snakes she had been so afraid to tread upon as a child. In spite of herself, she leaned forward to listen, wondering. How peculiar that someone would make such noises in such a place as this. Myrtle furrowed her brow for a moment, then gasped. It sounded like a boy! A boy who was attempting to trick her by talking like a snake!

Well, he certainly did a poor job of it, she thought, suddenly feeling huffy. And how dare he come in here, of all locations to be, where she was and other females often were!

Before she could stop herself, she had reached for the latch and swung open the door, preparing to give the intruder a piece of her mind. Yet all that was there was a pair of great, yellow orbs that seemed to burn her all the way through.

It was like she had been picked up and thrown into the air, the girl later decided as she looked upon her lifeless body with interest. Only it had been gentler than that, as if the air had then proceeded to catch her and spare her from the agony of the fall. It was a lovely feeling, in spite of the fact that she no longer needed to breathe to experience it. Although, somehow, she didn't mind this as much as one would expect. After all, there wouldn't have been anything waiting for her once she had left Hogwarts, and she had no friends to miss her.

As the girl thought this—she was surprised to find that ghosts could truly think for themselves—the door to the bathroom was flung open just as she imagined it had been before. A moment later, Olive Hornby stepped inside, not seeing anyone or anything but herself, and proceeded to preen before the mirror that had yet to show hairline cracks of age and misuse upon its surface.

The girl smiled to herself, hiding a giggle behind her transparent hands. Quietly, she floated behind Olive until she was peering over her shoulder and at her own reflection. Olive froze, her mouth shaping into a narrow, gaping "O" of surprise, and Myrtle tilted her head to one side.

"Boo!"

_The End_


End file.
